


Through Another's Eyes

by awkwardgturtle



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Puppy, M/M, Pre-Slash, mild stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardgturtle/pseuds/awkwardgturtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete is tired of being invisible to Patrick, so when he wakes up as a puppy, he sees only opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsforscience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsforscience/gifts).



> Unfinished. I might finish it, but have no plans to do so presently.

Patrick vaguely knew of Pete’s presence. Pete was sure of this. They went to the same shows, they hung out with the same friends, and they had even been alone together on several occasions. The problem was that they never spoke to each other. Okay, not _never_ , exactly, but they rarely expanded upon their normal “hi” or “hey.” This wouldn’t have been a problem if Pete wasn’t so drawn to him.  
  
He wasn’t in love – he should know; he had a list of exes a mile long, and more than a few of them had restraining orders against him – but it was something he couldn’t quite explain. He hardly knew anything about Patrick besides noticing that he was rather soft-spoken and dweeby with his knee-socks, glasses, and world-class collection of ugly sweaters. Still, he had this sort of… something. Something that pulled Pete in and held him. Something that coiled deep in his stomach, something that pumped through his veins like his very lifeblood. Despite all that, Patrick largely ignored Pete, so Pete watched from across the room, leaning against a wall, carefully noting each movement from afar.  
  
In the midst of Pete’s pondering, Andy wandered into his line of sight, blocking his view of Patrick. “You’ve been staring at that kid the entire show,” Andy said casually, taking a sip of his drink. “Aren’t you going to go talk to him?”  
  
“He’s busy,” Pete mumbled into his crappy, flat, two dollar beer, gesturing to where Patrick was chatting with Joe, a kid Pete used to hang out with on occasion back when he was still in Arma.  
  
Andy smirked, not bothering to look. “You are so gay for him.”  
  
Pete stared intently into his glass. “Shut up. I’m not.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
Pete really wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, but Andy wandered off before he could, so he turned his attention back to Patrick. He was laughing at something Joe had said, and Pete noticed the way he smiled with his entire face – something Pete had never known how to do. He especially noticed the way that Patrick wet his lips before speaking again. That didn’t mean that Pete was gay for him, it just meant that he was… observant. Or something.  
  
Just then, Joe glanced over, locking eyes with Pete for a brief moment. Pete dropped his eyes and stared into his drink once again, just now realizing how much he didn’t want to drink it. Or even stay in the goddamn club, for that matter. He peeled himself off the wall and spared a glance back into the corner where Patrick was following Joe’s gaze and making eye contact with Pete. Something in his stomach fluttered as he realized that that had been the most they’d communicated in months. A simple exchange of glances. Baby blues and wide-eyed browns.  
  
Pete made a beeline for the exit, not even bothering to say goodbye to Andy and chanced another look at Patrick. His back was turned and his head was ducked, so he didn’t notice when Pete slipped out the door.

:o:o:o:o:o:o: 

  
Pete slept well that night, which was a rare occurrence, insomnia aside. Normally, after he saw Patrick, he would lie awake and think about him, wondering what it would be like to finally be noticed. This time he drifted off dreaming of blue-green eyes and a strong, smooth voice washing over him.  
  
When he woke, his entire body ached. He didn’t remember drinking a whole lot and he didn’t have the tell-tale headache of a hangover, but everything inside of him felt strange. His spine felt compressed, like a shirt that had gone through one too many wash cycles, and his muscles seemed strung too tight as if he hadn’t used them in years. Pete groaned arched his back, stretching out his muscles as much as he could and blinked groggily at his paws.  
  
… Paws?  
  
He did a double take, noting that his once heavily tattooed arms were now covered in a layer of thick white fur. He let out a surprised yelp as he sprung to his feet – all four of them – and bolted from under the covers. He landed on the hardwood floor at full speed and skidded a good three feet before face-planting, chin hitting the ground painfully. Or like… lower jaw. Whatever. He was too disoriented to consider animal anatomy.  
  
He struggled to his feet, his claws skittering clumsily across the floor’s slick surface. Cursing internally, he stumbled toward his full-length mirror. He needed to see it. He needed to know he wasn’t dreaming. He started to second-guess his logic when he saw his reflection. Pete was pretty used to being short, but now he seemed to be less than a foot tall, standing on a wobbly set of legs with four oversized paws anchoring him to the ground. He was mostly white with a few patches of brown, one on his tail, small clusters along his sides and one draped across his right eye like he used to keep his hair.  
  
Pete closed his eyes, his own breath ringing loudly in his floppy ears. Yeah, he was dreaming. Definitely dreaming. Everything was clear and solid and _there_ , but he was dreaming. He had to be. Carefully, he opened his eyes and headed toward the front door. Dream or not, he couldn’t deal with this alone.  
  
A moment later, Pete ran into a rather large obstacle in the form of a rather large front door and a lack of opposable thumbs. Pete bared his teeth and jumped, paws scrabbling at the knob with no avail. He growled and tried again, only succeeding in flipping himself onto his back with a _thud_. Pete growled again in frustration as he hefted himself up yet again to seek another way out. He was _not_ going to waste his dogdom locked in his own house.  
  
Finally, he came upon his saving grace: the dining room window he’d left open the night before. The screen was still down, but Pete could easily claw his way through. Besides, what was the fun of dreaming if he couldn’t destroy things while he was at it? Just as he finished the thought, his eyes drifted to the vase on the table. He had gotten it as a housewarming gift from his aunt, but she had a habit of shopping on the World’s Most Hideous Objects Network. When Pete leaped onto the table and tipped it over, he only felt mildly guilty compared to the intense satisfaction of watching it crash to the floor. Pete grinned inwardly as he leaped away, slashing through the window without looking back.

:o:o:o:o:o:o: 

_  
Pete had his head pressed against the back window of the van, condensation matting his hair to his forehead as he squinted through the exhaust billowing through the winter air. He had wanted to get to the show early so they could get a decent spot, but Joe had insisted on inviting this kid that he’d met at a bookstore. Everyone had agreed to meet at four, but the van had been idling in the kid’s driveway for almost an hour with Pete and four other guys waiting restlessly inside._   
_  
Chris tapped his fingers impatiently on the wheel. “Five more minutes,” he grumbled. “Five more minutes and we’re ditching this kid.”_   
  
_“He’ll be here,” Joe said for the twelfth time, but this time he seemed a bit unsure._   
  
_“You said that an hour ago,” Andy pointed out._   
  
_Pete sighed, dragging his finger through the cone of mist his breath created, making swirling patterns in the clouded window._   
  
_“Pete, cut that out, or you’re going to be cleaning the windows later,” Chris warned as Pete made a sad, vaguely heart-shaped doodle._   
  
_Pete ignored him, filling in his heart by wiping the fog away._   
  
_“I see him,” Joe said as Pete cleared away the last of the mist from the inside of his misshapen heart, revealing a blurred figure picking its way over piles of weeks-old snow and ice._   
  
_The van doors opened and in climbed a mess of disheveled hair, red cheeks, and skewed glasses panting, “Sorry. Sorry, guys.” He stumbled into the backseat, straightening his hat and sat directly next to Pete. “Hi,” he breathed._   
  
_That was the first word Patrick said to Pete._

:o:o:o:o:o:o:

  
Pete had only seen Patrick’s house once, back when they first met. Okay, so Pete had only seen Patrick’s _old_ house once. Since then, Patrick had moved out and found his own place, a cozy little one-story house not too far from where Pete lived that Pete may or may not have driven past on several occasions, just to see if Patrick was home. In any case, he found his way there after escaping from his house, figuring that if he was going to dream, Patrick might as well be part of it.  
  
The flaw in his plan came when he spent nearly a half an hour clawing at the door, eliciting no response. Ringing the doorbell was more or less hopeless given his height, and he’d tried yelling, but his voice transformed in mid-scream, tearing from his throat in a stream of indignant barks.  
  
In a final, aggravated move, Pete dashed full speed at the door, slamming headfirst into the heavy wood. He collapsed dizzily when he backed away and let out an irritated huff. He’d walked a good three miles to get there and Patrick wasn’t home.  
  
“ _I’m ready to wake up now,_ ” Pete said to the clouds, but it came out as a long, drawn-out whine. He couldn’t even talk. Some dream.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've had this thing forever and the person I wrote this for convinced me to post it.

Pete huffed and finally decided to wait it out. Unfortunately, the early April winds are not friendly in the morning and they had Pete shivering within minutes, fur coat notwithstanding. When Patrick finally arrived home, Pete looked suitably pathetic, curled up and shuddering against the cold. 

Patrick walked up to him cautiously. "Where is your owner, little guy?" he asked softly, crouching to inspect for a collar. 

Pete looked up with the best puppy eyes he could mangage, which were pretty good considering that he was... well, a puppy. 

"I can't really keep you," Patrick mused aloud, "because I don't have the supplies, but I could always call a shelter." 

Pete whined and crawled closer to Patrick, nuzzling his nose into his knee. "Keep me," he thought as loudly as he could. "Look at how cute I am. You know you want to." 

Patrick scratched behind his ears, and Pete leaned into his hand. It felt surprisingly good, like someone giving him a massage in a strange place. "Come on inside," Patrick said, "You can warm up, and I can call the shelter in the meantime." 

Pete was not entirely okay with this plan – specifically the part that put him in an animal shelter – but he followed Patrick into his house anyway because warmth was a little too hard to resist. A moment later, another bright side showed: he was in Patrick's house! He'd never accomplished that particular feat as a human. Pete trotted happily about, taking in his surroundings, sniffing things – to keep up his act as a puppy, honest! – and marveling at how everything was so very Patrick, from the vinyl collection stacked on top of his CD towers to the various hats dangling from the coat rack to the argyle sweater hanging over the arm of the couch. 

Patrick picked up the phone and left the room, leaving Pete to sniff at his sweater, then trot over to the CD towers. Patrick's taste in music was... odd. There was a lot of David Bowie and Prince, which was good, but those were packed between Jay-Z and Frank Sinatra and he's pretty sure he saw ABBA in there somehwere. Pete was particularly pleased when he stumbled across a burned copy of Arma Angelus in the bunch. 

"At least he has an appreciation of all kinds of music," Pete thought happily. They would totally make awesome best friends. 

Patrick emerged from the kitchen a moment later, phone snug between his shoulder and his ear. 

“What do you mean you’re full?” Patrick asked, his teeth bared slightly, then, “Yeah, I know how you got full, I just… No, not really. I don’t know if the thing has rabies or…”

Pete growled a little at that. He understood him being concerned about rabies, but he was not too fond of being called a “thing.”

Patrick made a face at something the guy said. “Yeah, well, I don’t want out to take him to Mount Prospect. Can’t you just…” Patrick sighed. “You know what? Forget it. Bye.” He punched the END button and flopped down on the couch.

Pete hopped up next to him and put a sympathetic chin on his lap. Patrick reached down and gently stroked his head. “What am I going to do with you?”

Pete nuzzled into Patrick’s leg, closing his eyes. As long as he can stay with Patrick, it didn’t matter to him.

:o:o:o:o:o:o:

Pete was becoming increasingly aware that he was not dreaming. He woke in the back seat of Patrick car with the distinct feeling that he'd been stuck full of needles, and that was the sort of shit that even his head couldn't make up. He let out a long whine as he tried to stand, his little muscles quivering with the pain. Eventually he gave up and collapsed back to the seat.

In the corner of his eye, Pete saw Patrick glace at him in the rear-view mirror. “Are you doing okay back there?”

Pete whined again in reply and curled in on himself.

“I'm sure it's not that bad,” Patrick said, looking back to the road. “I can't believe you passed out, drama queen.”

Pete gave him the finger in his head.

:o:o:o:o:o:o:

There was a stand-off going on in the kitchen. At least, that's how Pete saw it.

Pete kept looking from Patrick to his food, sure this was supposed to be some practical joke.

Patrick was leaning against the wall, eyebrows raised. “Are you not hungry, or what?”

Pete nosed at his food and growled, hoping that it translated to I'm not eating this shit, because kibbles? Really? No.

Patrick narrowed his eyes at that. “Look, you have to eat sometime and I'm not buying you special food just because you're a picky little shit.”

Pete growled at him again and dumped over his food before stalking out of the kitchen, taking pleasure in the sound of Patrick's cursing.

:o:o:o:o:o:o:

It was a few days before Patrick seemed to accept that Pete was “his” dog. He had bought Pete bags of food to last “until I can find you a better home,” as Patrick claimed, but soon the bags he brought home were getting bigger and a small collection of chew toys that Pete never touched was beginning to pile up in the living room. 

Pete was offended by the toys at first because really, he was not a dog, and he was not going to gnaw on some rubber and cloth toys just because Patrick thought he was. However, this only meant Patrick would go out and buy more, determined to find one that Pete would like. After almost a week of his, Pete gave in and grudgingly started to gnaw on the squeaky rubber bone Patrick brought home that day. Patrick's face lit up like a Christmas tree, and suddenly all of the disgusting kibbles and having to go outside to take a shit were worth it.

It wasn't all bad, though. For one, Pete scored cuddles by the truckload. He had always been the cuddling type, and his new body made Patrick far less likely to push him away, so he took every opportunity he had to hop up on the couch and curl up in Patrick's lap or by his side. At first, Patrick tried to order Pete off of the sofa, but Pete wouldn't have it, simply hopping up again. It took him several tries, but Patrick eventually gave up, even offering absent strokes as he continued to work on his macbook or watch television.

They were in the midst of one such cuddle session when the doorbell rang. Patrick grunted in frustration as he pulled off his headphones and put his computer aside, then wriggled from under Pete. Pete whined in protest, but Patrick paid him no heed, heading to the door in a cloud of irritated grumbles. Pete just curled up, only half listening when Patrick opens the door and greets the visitor.

Pete's ears perked when they heard Andy's voice coming from the open door. He jumped up and peeked over the back of the couch to find Andy, sure enough, leaning against the door frame. Pete leaped from the couch and bounded toward Andy, letting out excited yips. “Andy, it's me,” he tried to say, hoping Andy would understand. If anyone would, it'd be him. “Andy, it's Pete!”

Andy, however, payed him just as little attention as Patrick did. “My friend's been missing for almost a week, now,” he continued, and Pete knew right away Andy could only be talking about him. “We went to the same show as you several nights ago, and I haven't seen him since. I went to his house, but all I found was a broken vase.”

Patrick made a face. “Which friend? I saw you were there with a few.”

“Pete,” Andy clarified.

“Pete who?”

The two simple words were like a stab to Pete's gut. Perhaps Patrick knew less about his existence than he had originally thought.

“Wentz?” Andy replied as if it were obvious. “I know you've met him. Tan, dark hair, brown eyes, tattoos, stupid haircut?”

Pete huffed at him. His haircut wasn't stupid. It was artistic.

“Oh,” Patrick said, nodding along. “Yeah, I remember now. Sorry, I haven't seen him.” He motions toward Pete. “This dog is the only life I've seen since the show.”

Andy finally looked down at him, and Pete wagged his tail hard, staring him in the eye in hopes of finding a spark of recognition there. “I wasn't even aware you owned a dog,” Andy said instead.

Patrick sighed and looked at Pete as well. “I didn't until he showed up at my door the day after the show. I haven't even named him yet.” He tilted his head a little. “He's sort of cute in a pathetic sort of way.”

Pete was about to voice his protest until Andy cut him off with a chuckle. “I don't know, that sort of sounds like Pete to me. Are you sure it's not actually him?”

Pete leaped up and down, barking enthusiastically. “Yes!” he thought as loudly as he could. “Yes, it's me!”

“He seems to like that name,” Patrick said happily. “Maybe I should call him that.” He knelt on the ground to scratch Pete behind the ear. “Do you like that name, boy? Do you want me to call you Pete?”

Despite his frustration, a pleased noise slipped from Pete's throat involuntarily as he leans into the scratching. “I hate you,” he thought at both of them benignly.


End file.
